


hands

by aparticularbandit



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:14:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22406296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aparticularbandit/pseuds/aparticularbandit
Summary: prompt: five times + hands.
Relationships: Luisa Alver/Rose Solano
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imsosorry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imsosorry/gifts).



She’s asleep and she’s awake.

Her fingers stretch slowly over her palm and her face scrunches up and she snorts like she’s going to sneeze and she settles and she doesn’t wake up.

The back of her hand is wrinkled and old. It’s easier to hide her age everywhere else – surgeries, make-up, change of hair, spritz of dye – a lot of magic to a lot of different things but the back of her hands are wrinkled and leathery and worn and tired.

Sometimes she feels the same way.

She’s awake and she’s asleep and she thinks she has never felt so alive and awake and she doesn’t know how to sleep again.

Her hand is soft beneath hers.

She leaves a kiss on the inside of her wrist, a mark made fresh with rose lipstick, before she leaves.

(It’s still there when she sees her later, hidden just beneath the edge of her sleeve. She smiles through the dinner. _She would anyway._ )

* * *

Her fingers are long and dripping with her.

She licks them off, one by one, as she watches.

_That is so hot._

_No,_ you’re _so hot. You’re melting for me, babe._

It’s not really true.

She’s not the one melting; _she_ is.

Something cold and frozen must always melt beneath the warmth of the sun.

It’s _her_ fingers that are dripping, after all, with _her_ heat. Isn’t that the way of frozen things?

Soon she will be nothing but a sopping mess.

(She already is one. She doesn’t want to tell her. She can’t yet. She’s sure she knows.)

* * *

Her hands smuggle into her jeans pockets as though looking for something and she freezes until she stands on tiptoes trying to rest her head on her shoulder.

_You’re too tall. Take your heels off._

She turns her head to try and look at the woman leaning up against her back and sees only a bright grin looking at her.

There’s not really a way to tilt her head down and back at that angle to kiss her, and she’s too tall for the other to reach her lips, even though she tries.

_We should switch._

_But your pockets are warm and I’m cold!_

_Here—_

A moment of rearranging, and her hands are in her back pockets instead of her front ones, her head resting against her chest instead of her shoulder, and she is in perfect position for kissing without awkward head angles that hurt a little too much.

Her hands can also squeeze her ass here.

She grins.

* * *

_Your clothes are so big!_

She lifts from where she’s curled up on their bed, sheets pulled across her back just under her shoulder blades, arms under head under hair somehow still retaining its curl even after sleep.

Her hands flop, the sleeves so long they cover them, and they flop again, trying to push them back.

 _Why are you even_ in _my clothes? You have your own._

That grin, awkward, like some sort of cartoon character, and the sleeve finally falls as she reaches to rub the back of her head. Then she shrugs, arms drop, and the sleeves drop, too. Her fingers barely reach the cuffs, the middle curling around the edge gentle.

_Yours smell like you._

She doesn’t blush, not really. It’s a habit she had to learn to feign innocent young thing for some man now long dead. Not just one man. _Many men._ They’re weak as much as they think they’re strong. They’re _easy_.

This has never been easy.

The red scarlets her cheeks where there are no freckles the way they stain the rest of her body, the back of her hands where they grow more and more wrinkled with age and she blames not enough lotion, she blames dry skin in the heat of their island paradise, and she is _old and older_ but she can’t say it.

She looks down and away.

(Someone else might believe that this was never meant for them, that this is something they were never supposed to have, that this would never be right for someone as stained and bloody as she is. But the blood is not on her hands. She might look less old if it was. Blood as a moisturizer. People did that. _She didn’t._

She does not care.

This is hers.

She fought for it.

She may not deserve it, but what man ever deserved what they got?

_You get what you deserve._

Sometimes you get what you don’t.)

* * *

She has never been much for the idea of gloves in her criminal endeavors.

Sure, they hide fingerprints, but it is just that – in most stories anymore, gloves are an indicator of hiding and hiding and hiding – not _fingerprints_ , like someone smart, but the _full self_ , something that can’t come out, something deep and dark and mysterious.

She’s good about not leaving fingerprints.

Doesn’t matter when they already know who she is.

Eileen’s hands were not as old as hers were. They also didn’t wear her freckles. Little details, little flaws.

No one pays attention to those things anymore. They pay attention to cracks in the mask.

Fine. _Fine._

Leave her knuckles bloody in prison. Let them scab.

Small things. They could notice that when they visit. _She_ could notice that.

_She doesn’t even know what it means to be in a prison._

Her hands are wrinkled and cracked and scabbed and she’s painted the nails to try and give some sort of glimmer and glammer to what is already falling apart.

The harsh steel of the gun doesn’t even grip right anymore.

Can blood still smooth out the skin when fire dries it out?

Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter, doesn’t—

* * *

(Sometimes she wonders if she is still breathing.

She knows that she isn’t.

Sometimes she wonders if there is any way she can be saved now.

She knows her doctor won’t stitch these wounds together.

She knows she won’t get the organ transplant.

Sometimes she wonders if somewhere she made a mistake.

She knows, she knows, she knows—

She can’t reach out anymore.

Her hands – the muscles, the sinews, all of it – won’t obey her.

She tries anyway.)


End file.
